Sir Gwaine and the Green Knight
by Feather Ice
Summary: Or, How Sir Gwaine fled from Camelot and the horror of an impending group date and got assaulted unexpectedly by the man of his dreams.


**Sir Gwaine and the Green Knight**

**Or:**

**Why Feather Ice Does Not Require Recreational Drugs**

A/N: I may have read _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_. I may have decided to make a crack version on it based solely on the fact that poor Gwaine has nobody to love him. However, I am definitely not on drugs. Happy face! Also, for those who were too dim to catch it the first time around THIS IS SLASH. Read at your own risk.

0o0o0

**Chapter One: In Which Gwaine Is not Allowed to Kill King Arthur**

Gwaine threw open the door to Gaius's apartments and stomped inside, shaking water out of his hair. Gaius nearly fell off of his chair and shoved something under his desk with admirable speed for an old man. There was a tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a smell like brimstone. Gwaine politely ignored that as Gaius aimed a level glare at him.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" The old man demanded.

"No. Leon has the flu." Gwaine craned his neck trying to peer around Gaius's piles of potions, books, and the unfortunate clutter that came with having many grateful patients most of whom bartered for a living. No neckerchiefs in sight. "Is Merlin in?"

Gaius gave Gwaine a 'what do you think?' look. Or possibly a 'please get back to the topic on hand' look. Girls gave Gwaine that look a lot, come to think of it. "The flu." Gwaine nodded, giving up on the hope that Merlin was secretly buried under alchemical texts to provide Gaius with his undivided attention. "Gwaine, are you aware that Camelot is currently facing a curse the likes of which I have never seen before and that hundreds of people may die if I am not allowed to focus on looking for the cure?"

"Yes, of course," Gwaine frowned. "But Leon was in charge of the confiscations."

Gaius paused for a moment and heaved a sigh. "If he's too weak, there's little I can do. Best take it up with our king."

"Right." Gwaine turned to head out and paused to ask, "So… Merlin's with him, then?"

"_Gwaine_."

"Going."

0o0o0

Gwaine wasn't allowed to barge into the Arthur's bedchambers at will. Something about him being the liege lord of all of Camelot or something. There were two guards outside Arthur's chambers and they watched Gwaine like well-armed hawks as he demonstrated that yes, he did understand the meaning of knocking. Pointless, pointless knocking.

Instead of Arthur commanding him to enter in his most pompous tones, the door cracked open barely an inch. An ominous, rasping whisper drifted forth.

"Who dares disturb my slumber?" It uttered. The guards stiffened in a fashion that suggested extreme discomfort.

"Merlin, it's me. Be a friend and let me in?"

"Gwaine?" The door opened up enough to reveal Merlin's grin. "Oh, that's alright then. Come in!"

Arthur's voice hissed disapprovingly from somewhere in the room, "_Merlin!_"

"Thanks very much," Gwaine replied, ignoring Arthur's latest plight to squeeze through the door. Merlin shut it as soon as he did, and Gwaine only had to wonder about the secrecy for a second. And then he turned around, which necessitated freezing and possibly putting his eyeballs out with his own sword. Merlin leaned against the door next to him, grinning and looking far too pleased with himself.

"Merlin," Gwaine said after a long moment.

"Yes, Gwaine."

"_Why_ is Arthur naked?"

This wasn't quite the question Gwaine meant to ask. The pertinent mystery here wasn't why Arthur was naked so much as it was why Gwaine was present for it.

"Because," Merlin said with relish, "We have a wager, don't we Arthur?" Arthur was currently glaring at Merlin like he was seriously considering grabbing a sword and spending the rest of the morning scattering pieces of loyal manservant to the wind. Gwaine shifted away from Merlin. Only a little.

_Do not ask, do not ask, do not ask—_

"…And what was this wager, exactly?"

_Dammit_, thought Gwaine.

He gave Merlin—still smirking—a concerned look. "Nothing that results in you getting beheaded for treason, I hope?"

"It will result in him getting _flogged_," snarled Arthur, who then crashed to the floor with a strangled yelp. Gwaine would have pretended to be more concerned if Merlin hadn't had to press his face into the wall to muffle his laughter and Arthur hadn't clawed his way back upright with a profoundly murderous glint in his eyes shortly thereafter.

Before Gwaine could throw Merlin over his shoulder and make good on that fantasy that popped up at odd times of the night—the one about their absconding from Camelot and eloping in someone **else's** kingdom—Merlin recovered enough to explain with a reasonably straight face, "Nothing. Just bet Arthur to try dressing himself this morning." His eyes got a rather wicked glint of their own. "…While I watched."

"_Merlin_!" Arthur sounded aghast now. Merlin's grin only widened.

"Good for you," Gwaine told his friend fondly. He clapped a hand on Merlin's shoulder and Merlin looked away from the sight of Arthur potentially murdering himself whilst trying to put on socks to smile up in return.

"GWAINE!" Arthur couldn't seem to decide whether to be more concerned over the comment or the physical contact. Hah. Let the man squirm.

"Sire," Gwaine announced, remembering his mission. "Sir Leon has taken ill."

Arthur abandoned the socks altogether, expression going tense. "It's not the curse, is it?"

Gwaine coughed lightly. "Erm. No, Sire. Seems to be—" Merlin caught onto the fact that his hand was still staking territorial claims to Merlin's right shoulder and gently shoved him off. Crushing disappointment. Bitterness. Despair. Arthur managed to look slightly smug, damn him. "—the flu."

"The flu," Arthur repeated flatly.

"Yes, Sire." And really, credit went to Leon for managing to, in a time when the entire country was being ravaged by a magically-induced plague, fall ill with something so utterly normal. "There was a bog, a fairy selling magical hatchets, and… some trouble." Gwaine had never seen Sir Leon tackle anyone in a fit of pure, animalistic rage, but after an hour of being repeatedly quizzed on which hatchet was theirs, the gold or the silver, when it was obvious that neither of them were, but both WERE subject to the crown's confiscation for the good of Camelot, if it hadn't been Leon, it would have been Gwaine. He felt compelled to add, "It was cold."

_And lake fairies can move the waters of their lakes at will._

Arthur sighed. "Right."

Gwaine bowed nobly. "Then I'll be on my way, Sire."

He almost escaped before Arthur informed him, "Naturally, the responsibility of confiscation falls to you."

Gwaine grimaced. So close! "Oh… You don't mean that."

"Oh, but he does," Merlin—blasted traitor—cut in, giving Gwaine a look that was without a doubt, perfectly calculated to activate every protective, chivalrous instinct Gwaine had in him. It was brave, true, and so trusting that Merlin deserved to burn in hell for it. Just a little bit. "Who better for the task? You are one of Camelot's finest knights." Arthur grumbled something less than flattering. "Finished with your socks yet?" Merlin called pointedly.

The grumbling ceased.

"Are you sure we can't just find the sorcerer who started this and kill him?" Gwaine wondered. "Because I can't help but think that would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to track down every hatchet in the kingdom to find the right one."

"No," Merlin said wearily. "…It's too complicated for that."

"The specifics of the curse are nothing but clear," Arthur disagreed. "The tree is the source of the contagion and to cut it down, we must have the Axe of Hautdesert." He cast Merlin a smug look as if to say, _See? It's not so complicated when you're as clever as I am._

"Socks," Merlin reminded him. Arthur went back to glaring.

"But if I go," _on this insanely boring task, this time without even one of my mates to harass_, "Then who can be trusted to protect you lot?" Gwaine smiled hopefully. "If Merlin were to succumb while I were away…" He shook his head mournfully. After a moment Gwaine remembered to add, "Oh, and of course you too, Sire."

"I am perfectly capable of protecting my kingdom," Arthur said through very tightly clenched teeth. "And _all_ of its subjects. Every measure is being taken to contain the illness. Besides, the contagion has yet to spread to the inner city."

Out of the corner of Gwaine's eye, Merlin looked suddenly and inexplicably smug. He did that sometimes. Gwaine had yet to figure out entirely why.

"Both socks," Arthur announced, managing to out-smug his manservant.

"Congratulations, Sire," Merlin called back to him, clapping Gwaine's back and subtly pushing him towards the door. "Anyway, Gwaine, you'll do brilliantly. Just think of it as an opportunity. You never know—you might meet someone!"

"Or you could come along and keep me company," Gwaine suggested with what wasn't so much as an innocent smile as it was a leer that had given up all pretenses several years of pining ago. "We could get to know each other. Much. _Better_."

Arthur's voice was like a thunderclap. "**NO.**"

"I'm serious," Merlin insisted. Gwaine had never really gotten around to admitting his 'so am I', so he didn't bother now. "You do seem a bit, well, lonely, Gwaine. I mean, there's Gwen and Lancelot, Elyan and that girl from the bakery, me and Arthur—"

Gwaine tried not to wince at that reminder. Oh for the days of yore, back when Arthur denied everything fiercely and Merlin had been approaching desperate enough for a rebound option. Damn you, misspent youth. Damn the fact that the king had a functioning brain on his good days.

"—there's even that weird… _thing_ between Leon and Percival—"

"We don't speak of that," Arthur interjected.

"Your trousers, Sire," Merlin pointed out, which successfully shut Arthur up once more. The king momentarily vanished from view, presumably doing battle with his trousers. "The point is," Merlin went on, leaning closer to Gwaine as he did. "You don't seem happy. And I—that is, _we_, actually—are worried about you…"

Gwaine's hopes, which had been gradually rising with every inch that closed between them, abruptly crashed and died pitiful, agonizing deaths. Merlin was not suggesting eloping. He wasn't even suggesting drunken illicit activities behind the king's back.

_This is,_ he realized with horror, _an intervention_.

This was what happened when all of his friends were in happy relationships and got to talking. The next step would be blind dates with someone's cousin or worse, group dates. In public.

Good god.

Gwaine smiled wanly. "I'm sure I can… work something out."

"I have nothing but faith in you," Merlin replied. He smiled too and Gwaine's terror promptly crashed into his libido and destroyed any semblance of coherent thought other than the one's about dragging Merlin back to a cave in the mountains and possibly stabbing Arthur before he went. Merlin eased him out of the king's chambers. "Now, go forth, brave Sir Gwaine! For the good of the kingdom!"

Gwaine eyed Merlin suspiciously. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Doing what?" Merlin asked in perfect, soul-crushing innocence. And then _of course_ Arthur's voice had to demand Merlin's attention and Merlin's face automatically split into The Arthur Smile. **That** one—the one he wore every time he heard Arthur's voice, or someone brought the king up in conversation, or he caught a glimpse of Arthur, or something obnoxious and regal crossed Merlin's thoughts in passing. The one that made his mouth crease and his eyes shine.

The one that never failed to make Gwaine's hands shake, just a little.

And of course, it was also the one that made it clear in great, gory detail, just how little of a chance Gwaine had ever had.

"I'll do it," Gwaine's mouth said without his brain's permission. His brain liked to go on holiday at times like these, so as to more effectively hit on Merlin at a later date.

"Excellent," Merlin said, but his thoughts were plainly elsewhere. He jerked his head at the door. "Duty calls!"

"Have fun," Gwaine instructed him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"_Nothing_ but bossing around with you lot," Merlin began to complain and then an arm snaked around his waist and the door slammed shut in Gwaine's face.

Gwaine stared mournfully at it. By the time a guard prodded him out of his thoughts, which were getting dangerously comfortable with high treason, he had more or less admitted to himself that maybe it would be in Camelot's best interests if he stopped trying to seduce King Arthur's lover every time they came within three feet of each other.

More or less. It _was_ kind of fun.

_But where_, Gwaine wondered as he tramped out into the rain to go hunting for yet another God-forsaken axe, _Am I going to find someone who's too witty for their own good, charming in every sense of the word, ridiculously brave, kind without meaning to be, just a little bit goofy, endearingly clumsy, and addictively good company? Oh—that's right. Up in King Arthur's bedchambers, getting his brains snogged out_.

By the time he made it out of Camelot proper, Gwaine had convinced himself to sheathe his sword again.

He'd also decided he was doomed. No one would possibly change his mind.

0o0o0

"That wasn't very kingly," Merlin remarked from where Arthur had him pinned to the door. "Not courteous at all."

Arthur, who was presenting a rather amusing figure wearing two socks and a whole lot of nothing, glowered. "Your liege lord was in a state of undress and in need of your assistance. And _you failed him_. What have you got to say for yourself?"

Merlin cast his eyes downwards, briefly contrite. And then: "One of your socks is on backwards, Sire." Arthur swore. Merlin whispered helpfully. "Still not very kingly, Arthur."

"You are provoking me intentionally."

"Wouldn't dream of it. What part of having you naked and at my mercy could ever appeal to me?"

Arthur withdrew a bit, scowling. "I can dress myself, you know."

"You've been saying that. But where is the evidence?"

Arthur said nothing.

"You know, I might take pity on you if you'd just admit that you had other servants come in and help you get dressed before." Merlin pointed this out in a tone of utmost goodwill.

An inaudible mumble followed.

"What was that?"

"Merlin. You have grown entirely too cheeky for your own good."

"Have I?"

"Yes."

The two men paused, sizing each other up. Arthur abruptly grinned. "I _see_. This is about letting other people see me naked, isn't it?"

Merlin grinned back slowly. "Now who's being intentionally provoking?"

So Arthur kissed him, making sure to remind Merlin that he was an idiot. Making the eighty-year old Brigswald help dress him in order to impress certain manservants had been very far from a seductive experience. And additionally, to make it very clear that in the future, Merlin could keep Gwaine's mitts off of him because Merlin was Arthur's. That changed over Arthur's dead body.

He withdrew by the time Merlin had thawed into putty in Arthur's hands. Arthur's sense of regal dignity helped him ignore the fact that Merlin's disheveled grin made him melt like—like—

Well, anything but putty. There were standards.

"Help take these socks off?" He whispered between them. He was only mildly insulted when Merlin started to laugh.

0o0o0

A/N: Dum de dum! Yup. To those who have read the actual text _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_, the plot should already be pretty obvious. But since this is going to be complete and utter crack, I think it will entertain even such discriminating audiences. Please review and tell me if my writing is, y'know, shit. And NO, I have not ditched If I Hypothetically Pushed My Destiny into Traffic. I know I missed the promised update weekend thingy. I got kinda jittery about you guys liking it, but seriously, I mean it, for real this time, chapter two will be up this weekend.


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